The Source
by ItCouldBeSweet
Summary: Direct sequel to Sound Life. A barely discernible anomaly in the basement of the bunker, the outcome of Cas's new hobby, and a visitor who may or may not be welcomed.
1. 00

(AN: The summary is shoddy because I don't want to give everything away just yet! I'd like to have some element of surprise in this story. I'll flesh it out more the further I get into it.)

"Would you like us to accompany you?"

What kind of bloody question was that? To his ears, that sounded positively offensive. Him, needing protection – from what exactly? What should he, the proclaimed king of hell, need to fear while scouting in the middle of nowhere's nowhere? The most dangerous thing likely to occur there would be stubbing your toe on a tree's root and scuffing your recently "purchased" oxfords. Well, that would be a shame, now that he considered it. Even so, he couldn't chastise the boy for his alacrity; having his busy little minions sharpen their tongues day by day, some unerring loyalty was resolve-affirming, and further delayed him from playing fetch with his puppy, with their various limbs as sticks.

A gentlemanly "No" was the reply to the lad (a general summary) and off Crowley went to... wherever here is, not that it's of any importance. The why, rather, that's the juicy bit, and he was looking right at it, which is, truthfully, not as impressive as he pictured it in his head. Like most headaches in life, he blamed the media for his unrealistic expectations – big budgets, non-reality based, time constraints skewing the real world results. Where's the drama? No dark swirling vortex with an electrical charge crackling inside? Hell, no sound at all? And better still, where is the film's hero? More like three festering boils on his backside. Not a moose, squirrel or blackbird in sight meaning he is, more or less, a step ahead of the dynamic trio, always on the lookout to reprimand him in their loudest big boy voices to quit being so naughty, and show off their newest antique toy truly believing in their hearts he gave a sweet damn. That would be cute if they weren't working for the wrong side.

What a world it would be: the tall one being the monster he was so literally born to be, the eldest one returning to the role that suits him far better than the savior; and the idiosyncratic feathered one, melting away his useless wings and be Crowley's partner once again. Their first date ended in failure, but deep in that human heart of his lies the ruthlessness that would have most demons wetting their panties. The angel, he's part of the package now, isn't he? Buy one Dean, get one Castiel free? That thought was always good for a chuckle on those dreary, rainy days. What do you give to a person with an already poisonous relationship to his family? Why, what else but another deadly relationship written in blood! Idiotic human, how are they able to tie their shoes let alone live as long as they do? And why do these men insist with their very own lives to continue protecting them?

No, no, something like that could never happen again, right? The righteous ones, now pious in their purpose, would never falter again; those dark days have long since passed. But just who exactly set such a thought into stone? Because they said so? Oh, love, the world doesn't work that way. A forceful nudge here, a shove off the cliff there and Dean's back to counting off severed fingers to help him fall asleep. Such fancies take time, time Crowley had, but why sit around waiting on someone else when you could be sitting on the shores of the Maldives with a margarita in hand being waited _on_? The cat eventually tires of the mouse and calls it a day.

The fun need not end their, either. Really, why limit yourself to a gaggle of idiots? Crowley thought of himself as far more creative than that, his ambition a little more grander and so on, you get the picture. The world in which he lived could be his for the taking – if he knows where to look. Who knows, there may be other native lands out there to be liberated by his empyrean conquest. To have his name cross the lips of angels, demons and humans from any time that has existed or will? It could sure make a fellow all tingly.

Two very confused and enigmatic _things_ parading in borrowed flesh made a bit of a mess here on Earth and, to be quite frank, left everyone else just as confused in their wake: the meek became boisterous, the violent insignificant; the loyal evaporating into treasonous little ants. The volumes of blood that had to be scrubbed from floors and clothing? An absolute nightmare. But those are the rules you agree to abide by when one becomes a henchmen: you step out of line and the boss is contractually obligated to step on your skull. Dirty and arduous labor that, but someone has to do it. The sun seemed to be coming up on those dark and red days, the ants returning to their regular temperaments and stations again, protecting their qu– king. King.

So the _things_ left and the cup of normalcy was 98% full, although not all was well in the state of Denmark, and he was looking at it. Bland, unfit for film. Not even worth taking a photo of.

Well then, first on his mental checklist was if death or bodily harm would befall him or anyone else–but mostly him–if they came into contact with the disappointing temporal distortion. A twig or stick... a deer... He was certainly kicking himself for coming alone. A simple shove of one of their arms into the possible meat grinder and he'd know for sure. This, of course, was only the first item on the list; if decapitation was avoided, part two would be returning safely back to the origin point, meaning next to him with details of his or her glorious journey to... where doesn't exactly matter right now, but coming back to him does.

Sacrifice one half of his cell phone? No, too many contacts would be lost, as well as some very, _very _personal photos.

"Very well then, looks like someone will end up with the short straw." Nothing like a lottery to decide who looses a leg.

Hmm... This is odd. The sensation of being observed engulfed him like smoke, and the smell that came with it reminded him of it too. More than that, it was familiar, one he could not forget despite numerous shooting star wishes. An odor he wish would have stayed where it belonged. Flowers being set ablaze. Ash. Black as tar and just as thick. And with a blink, no trace was left in the air. Unfortunately, the eyes remained.

"And what do I owe this most auspicious encounter?" Crowley failed purposely at containing a sigh and turned to greet his guests.

A deep voice returned the sentiment. "Nothing is destroyed going in. What happens on the other side still remains unclear."

"Never thought I would see the day when your kind would divulge any information with the likes of me. Must be my birthday." He took a moment to take in the man in front of him, and his vessel's choice in apparel. "Mowing the family lawn, were we?"

Caim smirked like he expected Crowley to say something something along those lines, dark eyes twinkling. "Regarding one's outer appearance as critical... That's one of the countless differences between us. It bleeds of humanity, even if you are demon. And the ruler of all demons at that." His tone turned derisive; a choked laugh came from behind him. "When was that agreed upon by the entirety of Hell, exactly?"

"When your bestie failed to live up to his word," Crowley replied quickly, almost sounding bored. Which he was. Best to get on with it instead of playing whatever game Caim was tossing about in his head. "Since you seem to be in an uncharacteristically generous mood, may I ask why you are here and why that rabid mongrel is at your heels?"

The restless boy behind Caim did the only thing he could do in rebuttal, which was to search his vessel's pocket for its wallet and throw it at Crowley. The brown leather bounced limply off his chest and onto the soft soil. He chortled again, unable to decide how loud it should be; the other two demons, for the first time in history, both agreed to ignore what had just taken place.

"The abridged answer to your questions is that we wanted both parties to acknowledge the others' curiosity in what's before us, that we assuredly have dramatically separate goals in mind. As for this one," he briefly turned his head to the pacing demon behind him, "we're attempting to retrieve a toy he lost the last time we were on the surface. The location which he conveniently _forgot_." The scathing remark was in turn ignored by its intended target.

"What do you expect to happen when you give an important piece of equipment to an infant? Lost under the couch, down the toilet... Jesus will be resurrected before you find that again."

The odor of ash and burning flora blew past him in a thick gust, heavy and moist, as the small snarling demon began to show part of his true self. His shadow began to grow along the ground, abnormally black – too black, losing bit by bit its human shape, and charged at Crowley. Caim's raised hand was all that was needed to stop him, the freight train crashing into an object that could not be moved by any force. He pushed at it once with his shoulder before giving up, still snarling, eyes remaining as black as his shadow. At least the idiot is smart enough to know when he's lost.

"This is your warning, usurper." If the fellow wasn't such a prick, that commanding voice would certainly catch his attention, maybe heed a word or two; but because he was –and always has been– rude, the old demon was nothing more than a nuisance. "Continue on this path and I promise you we will eradicate those ignorant enough to follow you, and... well. I don't want to ruin the surprise just yet." The stupid one tittered behind him.

"Now, now, don't lead me to believe I have a voice in this matter. I curtsy to you or I don't, but either way I'll have a rat-sized cage with my name on a plaque right above it." Sliding his hands into his coat, Crowley stepped closer to the two, feeling as though he had nothing to lose. "So, how about I tell you to piss off, take my chances, and do what I've wanted to do to your kind for centuries?"

"Your risk is too big."

"The loftier the gamble, the richer the reward. That reward, well, she's just too big to pass up. And when did you begin to care for my well-being? Getting sweet on ol' Mr. Crowley?" He couldn't help himself but to smirk at the artificial candy coating of his own voice. When did any of them show the remotest amount of interest in underlings like he once was? That sort of consideration wasn't in a demon's repertoire of disposable emotes. So to temporarily placate their significant duchies in Hell must be signal to a bad moon about to make itself known, which might be entertaining enough to stick around for.

Caim, meanwhile, implacable still after centuries of reluctantly being his acquaintance, remained unperturbed in front of him, heart-breakingly unconcerned with having Crowley's love. Oh well, bullocks to him; guy doesn't know what he's missing out on. The slow one was... well, casually making his way behind Crowley, still maintaining a cautious distance from him, to more than likely inspect the distortion for himself.

"You can say we've been buddies for a long time, yeah? We bump into each other on our way to homeroom, you say 'Hey,' I say 'Hey,' and that's that. Compared to the others, you stuck out like a stubborn infection, all red and throbbing, and not that pleasant kind of red and throbbing either." An elephant-like inhale interrupted him, derailing his train of though. Suppression. Non-violence. Don't kill him yet; it's not worth it. Crowley closed his eyes and held his breath. At five seconds it was clear to talk once more. "This whole stoic, chivalrous part you play reminds me so much of our feathered friends to the north. Don't you find that amusing, because to me that's a joke that keeps me in stitches for years."

Finally, a flinch. A twitch of the eye, shoulder raised doing a little suppression of his own. Yes, of course an angel barb would be one if not the only thing a rise out of this lump of a creature. Both a blessing and a curse to demons and angels alike is their eternal memory – that is, to say, most demons and angels. The sniffly bugger behind him was... _something _else. Some blemishes, no matter how much you attempt to beautify them with loyalty and good deeds, can never be scrubbed away.

"Grade school taunts. Yes. I could mention just how human that is to bring up, but since you _aren't_ human anymore, what's the point exactly? Could your cocky attitude be, perhaps, a remnant of your past?"

An assured tug at the corner of his lips and a point well taken, one Crowley embarrassingly walked into. How could you bring up undignified checkered pasts and ignore that his was just as demeaning? His climb to the top was hampered by the representative weights of an undignified crossroads wish leading to the just as undignified position of crossroads demon. A true blue pauper to prince; a story he should sell the rights to. The Academy just loves "based on a true story" dramas; this one assuredly more engaging than young, depressed American football players. A point to the visiting team.

"Your confidence will kill you, Crowley. We gave you a chance to stand aside as we begin to engage in–"

"Chance?" the demon snorted indignantly. "What bloody chance? You and your clan made your decision about what to do with me long before any of you stepped back on solid ground. I find it insulting you think of this as giving me an opportunity to scurry away with my tail tucked between my legs, not even a slap on the wrist for my traitorous ways. Oh, my fate's been sealed and delivered, love."

So, where does this leave Crowley? Kill him now or kill him later? While it would make whatever plans they have easier if they removed the roadblock ahead of them, he knew their style. The more substantial problems were solved in groups, not necessarily because they needed the extra manpower but that they liked witnesses. Family bonds, something or other, blah blah. Not only that, but people from his camp to also observe as proof and example, like how the severed heads of dukes and kings were impaled on spikes and placed in the town square or adorning their own castle in the delightfully turbulent days of medieval Europe. No, his death would be seen by angels and demons as a new regime ascended. Nothing to fear yet, yeah? Not to say he was, because if he was ever forced into battle (and wouldn't you know it, he is) with his wish list of enemies and people who generally were as welcomed as stepping on dog feces, Crowley is glad it would be these shining examples of favoritism.

The demon in his backyard best raised his hand defensively. "We just wanted to know where you stand, Crowley."

"Like I have much of a choice," he muttered as he looked over his shoulder. The kid was shoulder-deep into the distortion, wiggling his arm about and looking ludicrously determined as if he was going to find something. Who knows? He just might. Or he could lose something. Both outcomes were most welcomed. "Go a little deeper and you'll find the prostate in no time." His reply was only an acknowledging grunt.

"Time to go, Bel," Caim's voice beckoned him, not like you would with a pet much to Crowley's surprise. A calm insistence. "We have more important matters." With a final blind grope raised on his toes, he casually relented, walking past Crowley... before disappearing and doubling back to kick him in the shins. As the assaulted demon cursed and clawed out for the little shit, wanted to pop his head with only his hands, he appeared in his spot behind Caim once again While his keeper did not appear to be pleased, he didn't look all that offended either.

"Keep that bastard on a leash, would you!" Oh hell, how degrading... Alright, _that_ one dies first, top of the damn list.

"There's only one thing in this world that controls any of us. I'm sure you remember that." A clandestine nod of his head and Caim was off to continue his search for who-the-hell-knows-and-who-the-hell-cares with his rabid cerberus. He was kicked. _He was kicked_. Like a child in the schoolyard. Wasn't _he_ supposed to do the kicking?

At least he was alone now to irritably fume in comfort. Which he did, muttering once or twice under his breath and smoothing out his suit, not that it wasn't wrinkled in any way. More tainted than wrinkled, really.

"I do scrutinize my looks a bit obsessively..."

This distractions had left – temporarily. While they did not offer anything resembling peace between their two parties, Crowley knew for certain that he had opposition at all. Better still was knowing the enemy personally. But should it be such a revelation that those ones would be the rival team? Not at all. Crowley's action were heretical; judgment was only a day away when he claimed the crown from the imprisoned Lucifer.

Or at least it should have been. Why such a long delay? Granted time moved sluggishly in the furnace, but the reaction to Satan being locked away in Alcatraz should have been instantaneous. It had been years. Why all the interest in him now? No, there was more to them showing up than just him being eliminated from the scene. Whatever the "plan" was, he was only a part of it, one step to achieving what they truly desired.

But Crowley had plans of his own, damn good ones too. That would not change – just altered. His were too tasty to abandon because a few upperclassmen ganged up on him on the playground. Unforeseen variables had entered the picture, and since restarting was not an option, a little ingenuity and tweaking would be needed to accommodate such unwanted outside forces. Well, they would have been a problem eventually, if not now than sometime later. And that's just dandy with him. What do you do with pesky vermin? Suffocate them until their black eyes pop out of their skulls. No matter how big their talk may be (and it will be), they are demons and easily disposed of. The world would be better for it.

Now, about this damn vortexy thing. Which fortunate soul would be first to hop down the rabbit hole?


	2. 001

(A/N: The change in POV is intentional)

"_...is...t..."_

A grunt muted by pillow.

"_How...rec...ze..."_

"You're talkin' in your sleep, Cas. Knock it off." He wriggled around hoping that his backside would bump into the noisy angel and rouse him enough break unconsciousness' hold. When empty space was the only thing to be bumped, two bleary eyes were opened to observe with another of the five senses that he was, in fact, not going out of his mind.

No ass in the bed.

Dean looked up.

No ass hovering around the bed.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Dean resigned to himself that, yeah, he's crazy and it's way too early in the morning to come to such realization.

But he knew what he heard: Cas in the room _with him_, and his words were a little fuzzy because Dean was half-awake. Makes sense. That did little to explain the complete lack of Cas in any nook and cranny here. A voice without an owner. Maybe his voice was carried through the ventilation. Maybe not because something like that has never shittin' happened before.

A hand grouped to the normally occupied space next to him. No warmth to speak of.

Alright then, time to get up. He was afraid that if he dwelled on the troubling thought any longer a call to the hospital and a strait jacket would be in his near future, probably before breakfast. Not that it's ever too early for a little crazy when you're a Winchester.

* * *

After putting on a pair of sweatpants and socks, Dean shuffled out of his room with Cas's radio static voice buzzing like some of the flies he smashed yesterday. His feet led him to either find the angel or find food, but eventually willed himself toward the kitchen. Didn't want to be clingy as well as nuts. Just a dream, remember? Cas has been coming into your dreams lately so it makes sense his voice would linger before he awoke.

He couldn't help but grin. Yeah, they've been pretty great since he allowed Cas back into them, finally feeling comfortable and confident enough after the nightmares and other distressing visions to be... vulnerable again. That wound was on its way to being 100% closed. The first couple of nights were spotty and Cas would end up being ejected, if ejected was even a proper term to use for consciously forcing someone out of a dream you shared. Whatever the word, Cas was out and he'd be left alone to stew in chaotic thoughts and memories. But they were always temporary, and the next night he'd invite Cas back in and

_Hear his voice in my head when I'm wide awake._

Before jumping to conclusions, he thought, asking Cas himself, wherever that little vagabond is roaming, was an actual starting place and not simply paranoid delusion cutting in line like it usually does. This is more in his area of expertise.

Rounding his way to the kitchen Dean ran into Sam, who started his day well ahead him (as usual, the freak). Wearing shorts and with earbuds planted in his ears, a jog -or gallop- in the great outdoors was his next destination. (Which is why he's a freak. Only weirdo sociopaths engage in any sort of exercise at 7 in the morning. Only foul weather stopped him, which brought his brother back one step closer to the side of an average Joe.) In the direction he was heading in, he was all set to leave.

"Mornin'." Sam gave Dean a quick once over with his eyes. "Something wrong?"

"Guy wakes up a little early in the morning and he has to be sick?"

"Considering your morning starts at 1 PM," he pointed out, "I'd say yeah, something has to be wrong."

That's not true. Mostly not. Cas wakes him up some time before that...

"No, nothing's wrong," Dean responded back childishly. "Just couldn't get back to sleep." He yawned. "Don't you have to be galloping of to somewhere right now?"

Sam bit his lips to stop himself from smiling. "I'm not a fucking horse, you jerk. I'm not!" he laughed out when he saw Dean about to counter the equine denial.

"You keep actin' like being called a horse is such an awful thing. Most guys would take that as a compliment." Sleepy or not, anytime was a good time to be slimy. Seeing his younger brother turn up his nose in disgust was the definitive sign that his word was the last.

Continuing past Dean, Sam parted with "Be back soon" with a quieter "Gross" at the end.

It was here Dean's mind had to quickly contemplate the pros and cons of asking Sam where Cas was because, he finally admitted to himself, he was clingy, he was _really _fucking clingy and crazy and needed instantaneous peace of mind; he could go look for himself and would likely have to search the bunker anyway, but a "Yeah, I just saw him" would make for a less vigorous search. Dean hoped that Sam would keep quiet about the rise in possessiveness – something Sam himself should be used to. Being a newborn was what he equated it to. It certainly was new to Dean.

He fought with himself as Sam reached the turn, blurting out, "You seen Cas?"

"Huh? Yeah." The earbuds connected to his phone, which he pulled out from his short's pocket. "Probably... fifteen minutes ago. It's been so quiet up here, he's probably downstairs. Don't know what Cas would want down there, though."

Who knows why he does 90% of the things he does.

* * *

Below deck of the bunker stayed relatively cool and clammy no matter the season, it being further in the ground than most basements. As does topside, but that is much more comfortable: less humid, less early Fall in the South. For the space's low traffic and activity, it could be the Amazon or the Antarctic. Temporary discomfort and the complaints due to it were viewed as shallow to Sam and Dean, having dealt with much worse on a longer scale of time. In Castiel's case, they were no different than an oxygen dependency; problems that did not affect him whatsoever. Some days this summer felt as if you were drowning in the air rather than breathing it in, and then there's Cas wearing two types of coats. Dean wasn't sure if being an angel was a fair trade-off for that kind of temperature control, but he had to admit it was pretty damn handy. Definitely could have used it when he was younger: stranded in the woods for days during any of the seasons, alone.

The general misuse of the basement/storage room coupled with that gave it a further air of antiquity. Closely aligned metal shelves covered in dust as well as the objects upon them – idols, wards, talismans, manila folders and books bound in questionable materials filled with diagrams and languages he could not understand, many of which died off thousands of years ago. Whatever that could not be placed upstairs without overflowing onto the floor was brought down here in all of its chaotic glory. Well, with several potential labels it is pretty difficult to organize them. If it was good enough for the nerds that ran this place, it was good enough for the people who inherited the key.

It was between these shelves and gray walls that Dean finally found Cas, who looked as if he left bed in a little bit of a rush, leaving the pants and shirts in the dresser and throwing on Dean's robe instead, a cold he couldn't feel coming from the floor on his bare feet. He was staring stone-faced at Dean, but not exactly. Almost peering through him, or at the very least behind him.

"Hey, uh..." He glanced behind himself just to assure himself that some Abbott and Costello-type mummy wasn't comically chasing him. "Am I interrupting you?"

Leaning to the side as if something tall was blocking his view, Cas answered that question with a question of his own. "You can't see it?"

Dean mimicked Cas uncertainly. "No?"

The reply seemed to confirm a suspicion. "That's what I thought at first, too," he mumbled, to himself more than Dean. Dean didn't understand the particulars of what was happening right now anyway. "Stand next to me. But don't walk forward!" Behind him Dean imagined the dust on the shelves being shaken from Cas's warning yell, tiny plumes puffing into the air. A voice like that doesn't carry in a small room like this.

Waving his hand to his side, Cas regained control over his voice. "Use the, um, circumference."

Dean did as he was told, staying as close to the walls as possible, all the while the angel's eyes darted from him to the empty air, making sure that he didn't step over some imaginary boundary. With such a steady focus there was no chance he was looking at nothing, something Cas did have a propensity to do.

Nudging close to Cas, shoulder-to-shoulder, Dean squinted and resigned. "Nope. Can't see a thing. I don't doubt ya when you say there is," he tried to console the angel when a small scowl darkened his face, "but maybe it's an angel thing where mortals can't–" An arm snaked its way around his shoulder and fingertips pressed into his cheek, forcing Dean's head to tilt sideways. Words of protest were more noises than words at being prodded – not a fun kind of prodding either, even though they _were_ alone right now.

There. In the very corner of his eye. Right there. What was there? Could it have been some residual sleep that needed to be wiped away? A small gossamer blur, floating but stationary. He squeezed his eyes several times to be sure... And it was gone.

"You moved your head."

"Huh?"

Cas sighed because, really, what was so difficult about that forthright statement? He loved the human dearly (_too much so_), but some of the time he seemed so... unaware, like he spoke in riddles. Grasping Dean's other shoulder, he guided Dean in front of him. And as he moved, so did it, like a sliding-glass door; one moment having a clear and unobstructed view to a clear yet distorting sheen.

"It's like a da– you can stop poking my cheek now." Cas looked at his hands accusingly, wondering why one was still at Dean's face. Enjoying their brief moment of pushing him around? Not pushing – gently guiding him in the right direction. The boys would be walking in circles without a little celestial help sometimes. Dropping his hands to his side, Cas smiled inwardly. It wasn't just his power or blood they needed, but his insight and knowledge, and in the case of Dean, something even more.

"It's like a heat mirage," Dean continued. He looked around the room ostensibly. "Far as I can see, this place is the opposite of sunny and warm. So?"

Dean's face inferred that Cas, bastion of insight and knowledge, should have an explanation or at the very least a hint for such a disturbance. "Well, 'so' is what I'm asking myself. It does seem similar to the portal you and Benny opened in Purgatory in that it is..." Cas searched his mind for a better description and found no results. "...Shaped like it."

"No strobe lights, no hurricane wind blowing us over," Dean agreed, scanning the shelves for a certain something. Unsure of his selection -a dark red satin pouch with Nordic runes stitched onto it that felt in his hands to be empty- he decided on something more disposable.

Cas watched on as Dean took a sock off of his foot, balled it up and tossed it through the opaque illusion before them. It passed through silently before bouncing off the door and delicately landing on the floor. Didn't disappear, was not vaporized or set ablaze; didn't pass through and come out on the other side as a cosmic horror.

"Well, if it is... _was _some type of teleportation, time-and-space incinerator thing, it's definitely inactive now." The pull of Castiel's penetrating gaze on him was hard to ignore. "I always think I did something wrong when you look at me like that. But because I'm such a quick study," his tone growing cocky, "I found out that, when you start giving me the eye, I just slowly start making my way up to you, grab hold of your waist..." That part always weakened Cas, the touch causing him to flush and thaw enough for his will to wave the white flag and meet Dean's lips that were so close by. Castiel was also quick to learn that Dean's own resolve was forged of steel when it came to open-mouth kisses in the morning. He insisted that morning breath meant very little to him, but Dean insisted it was "bedside courtesy." Fingers grazing his face or chest or thighs, something like he did now, did well to fill the gap.

"You were going to pout your lip and lecture me on the dangers of throwing clothing at potentially unstable floating..." He motioned to the middle of the room. "...Whatever that thing is, set it off like a bomb or something. But you're still so genuinely surprised when I initiate contact that you blush like you just did and stumble over your feet." Though Dean pointed out the obvious for Cas, having a little fun at his expense, he couldn't help relating to his own words. Cas reacted to him, he reacted in turn to Cas; the angel who had little to no verbal filter or inhibition would stop speaking and forget momentarily what he was speaking of, only because Dean stood a tiny bit closer. Looked only at him in a room full of people, young and beautiful and, Castiel confided, more polite. Kisses stolen with Sam nearby, risking a day's worth of cooing and giggles. He would be mystified, probably thinking "_Does he really care for me this much?_"

_Yeah, guess I do._

"Just like you are right now," Dean said coyly against Cas's lips. The hands that he never wanted to lift from his body did so giving him the freedom to move once again, which still was not as appealing as Dean holding him steady. Truly amazing how something so... absolutely simple could be desired so strongly. How a brush of the human's skin on his could bring upon such a depth of emotion. It was little wonder how angels before him consorted with them; a feeling that not be obtained with their own kind, risking their very grace to feel alive.

And then Dean walked through the potentially unstable floating thing.

* * *

"He was _pissed_," Dean snorted into his hand, holding a bottle close to his lips. "I thought he was gonna set me ablaze with his fury. My foot was cold, and the shortest route is always straight – which meant walking through something that could atomize me," he belligerently acknowledged.

"You gotta admit he had the right reaction. Something simple like a fabric could have went clean through, but humans are more complex."

"Like bizarro _Terminator_. The clothes gets sent to the future, human is torn apart from the inside out, and Sarah Connor has a new sweater but is too dead to appreciate it."

"You're talking about the first film, right?" Sam asked.

"'Course I am. Reese was the only human to be sent to the future or to the past, so he's toast. The machines aren't really alive so they'd make the trip. Why the hell are we talking about this?" Either because his bottle was empty or wondering just how he tried to rationalize fictional time travel, or both, Dean frowned.

"Because you're the one who brought it up!" Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Of course his brother would admit to liking men before admitting to being just as big a nerd as himself. A living, breathing encyclopedia of electronic and automotive configuration and customization, so knowledgeable in movie, TV and music trivia that historians would reconsider their occupation... And Sam was still the nerd in this little outfit they ran. Maybe it was for the best that Dean believed that to be true; it was an insignificant boast in a life that took too much away to be proud of.

"Yeah, well..." He drew a line in the air with his hand. "I'll be having no more of it. I won't let you let me yap on about robots and how the end of the world happens in 1997. Probably had something to do with Hanson and not computers." The lightbulb of a breakthrough glowed in Dean's eyes, like he had discovered fire or a cure for cancer. Sam was forced to turn away because it was just too damn much. Dean definitely was not drunk, but the path toward it was coming to an end.

At the table behind Dean, a group of four men ended a round of poker, some with cries of yet another defeat and accusing the winner -several times over- of cheating, though in a tone that indicated no retaliation. The more subdued winner graciously accepted his earnings. The bar at this time of night was close to last call so most of the patrons had already made their way home, or to someone else's home, leaving those gentlemen, Dean and Sam, and a male and female sitting at the counter who were most likely friends of the bartender. A genial atmosphere. They could have left anytime they wanted to. Sam, though, had reason to stick around. Something he had to see with his own eyes, not hear from the dubious mouth of his brother.

Attempting to distract Dean from his own distractions, Sam continued. "How did he know it was there? To look in the right spot, knowing it was in the basement. We go down there everyday and didn't suspect a thing. Hell, we probably walked _through _it."

Dean focused back on Sam, like he remembered he was still there. "I don't even think Cas knows. All he told me was that he woke up with 'You must go downstairs' in his head. Fortunately for you he had the decency to toss on a robe. He has the tendency to sleep naked when we're home, so I'm gonna say you used up your luck for the month."

A bratty smile like that makes a guy wish he could pinch those lips closed and rip them off.

"You woulda seen things, Sammy. Things you can't unsee."

Sam grabbed a used napkin, balled it up, and threw it at Dean's face, who regrettably knocked it away with the poise of an oxygen-starved fish. "Stop saying weird shit about my friend!"

He shrugged. "Just looking out for you. What big brothers do."

The motivation was incredibly doubtful though Sam ceded to it anyway. After his daily ritualistic teasing at the expense of Dean and Cas, a retribution that no cold shower could remedy was to be the proper reaction. Not that he accepted it.

Sam lowered his eyes. Why does Cas sleep naked? Why does Cas sleep at _all_?

Two of the men folded, sounding like they were done playing for the night. Dean beamed brighter than any star. "He's doing good, isn't he?" he whispered conspiratorially. "Right? He's good. Damn good."

"You only say that 'cause you taught him."

"Well, yeah, that's certainly a part of it."

When Sam asked how this -Cas playing for money- came up, he sincerely meant it. He wasn't sure if it was a case of monkey see, monkey do, he had a genuine interest in the game, or some other motive entirely. After draining his bottle completely Dean told him about a month ago, when his temperament was still fluctuating almost violently, Cas said to him with honesty that since he was now traveling with the brothers he wanted to earn his keep and not feel like a burden to them. Dean, of course, thought that was pretty damn dumb. Angels are more of an emotional drain than a financial one – they don't need to eat or drink, motel rooms are free, and he can repair his clothing. But Cas was wearing more than a suit and tie now, having an inexpensive wardrobe but a wardrobe all the same; and he was still living with them. Even kids do chores for their parents.

The simplest but still risky way for a hunter to earn cash was gambling (and to a lesser extent hustling, because you were more likely to lose an eye that way). There were other means like "misappropriated" credit cards and some old fashion pawning, but those methods left trails. Cas had nothing to pawn as it was, nor was he too hot on the idea of stealing. ("We only steal from people who deserve it, right Sam? We're like Robin Hood, except that you're Little John.") So poker it was.

"His strength is his face, no question. Well, it was even when we first started, but he was very... forthcoming with his hands," Dean strained. "Just spitting it out whenever he had the chance. He's a quick learner, I'll give him that. Learning to keep his mouth shut?" He shook his head shamefully.

Tonight was Cas's third time playing with a public audience and Sam's first seeing him. He passed up the other opportunities because he wanted the two to have more time alone while being out. Dean denied it, but Sam felt like a third wheel sometimes. He wasn't bitter about it, not an ounce: they _should_ have their nights. Unfortunately, they could not be open about their relationship, which probably wasn't an issue with Dean to begin with. His brother never was very outward with his affection, no holding and brief kisses. To be close to one another, without any interference from Sam, was enough for now. But when the question was asked to him tonight, he couldn't help himself. Sam had to see for himself just how skilled Cas was, and if Dean could teach an old angel new tricks.

Cas had the face for a strong bluff, and the amount of time his bets matched the misdirection didn't take very long at all. Numbers and statistics, that line of logic, was probably one of the foundations of an angel. As leader of a garrison in heaven, Cas had to excel at strategy. While he could cheat if he desired to, he never did; he played as he thought a human would.

"I was the one who suggested cheating, but he gave me this grumpy cat look so I didn't bring it up again. The way he plays he doesn't need to." Dean gave thought to what he just said. "Unless he _is _cheating and wants me to think he's taking the holy high road."

The two former players left with what little money they had left, leaving one very desperate middle-aged man at the table. Dean caught sight as Cas was about to shuffle for a new game and thought now was a good time to call it quits. "Shop's closin' up soon and I'm pleasantly tired, so let's head on home," Dean spoke over the grind of chair legs scratching the floor as he stood up.

"This gentleman desires one final game. Why is this not possible?" Cas asked cynically, the snap of the cards in his hands a salute to his stubbornness. The man to his right side nodded his head with muted desperation.

Dean's face said to Sam that he was expecting this to happen yet sure as hell didn't feel like dealing with it. With a sigh he walked up beside the man about to drown himself in debt. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Stephen." He certainly wasn't sure what to make of this new presence at the table...

"Alright then, Steve." Dean patted the poor guy on the shoulder. "How much cash you have to burn?"

"Not m–"

"Not much?" Dean interjected. "Yeah, I can see that." After giving Sam talks like this when he was much younger, and to a far greater extent having Sam tell him to end on a high note, this speech was all very routine and while he would ask questions, he wasn't going to allow a break for an answer. "I'm gonna surmise from that Mount Everest of money my friend has is that you and those other guys went for broke, hoping to get some of it back. He's somewhat of a humanitarian, too, so he thinks he's doing you a solid when you beg for one more round. That's where I come in and tell you," he stressed by slapping the befuddled guy on the back, "to cut your losses and leave with enough gas money to get home."

Cas sighed impatiently. "I can argue for myself, Dean."

"I know you can," Dean agreed, "but your argument is pro-taking-his-money."

"I'm only trying to be–"

By this rate the four of them might be here until after closing, trying to find a compromise in the dark silence of the parking lot: Cas sitting on the pavement, Dean trying to snatch the cards he held, and poor Steve trying to sneak away but being caught at every attempt. Cas's innate virtue of charity was at odds with Dean's need to get home, top off with a nightcap and snooze until noon. Their combined obduracy had its own gravitational force like they were their own Moon. Seeing them bicker like they were married was kind of cute – in short bursts.

He would have announced his exit but really, who was going to hear him? Maybe Stephen, with eyes pleading _Help me_. With a shake of his head, he left cash on the table and snuck out without a word.

The brisk night air felt benign after being inside for a couple of hours. The sparse ceiling fans and less than adequate ventilation coupled with a Labor Day weekend crowd caused the building to feel a little stuffy, even after most of the patrons left; he didn't realize how much so until he came out. The bar ended one of the major streets in town so residential homes were packed close by (even as gambling occurred right next door, Sam noted with humor), streetlight illuminating a few cars parked on the side of the road. As for the cars in the lot, Dean's Baby was solo, looking small and abandoned in the middle of it. After pressing Dean on how much he may or may not drink tonight, he unwillingly parted with her keys, of which Sam grabbed from his jean's front pocket.

He felt it before he saw or heard it, hand hovering beside the lock. That swift change in pressure that has pressed on his skin so many times before. A mental assessment in less time than it took to blink: alone, unarmed, unannounced, too close behind him to be friendly. Most things in this world that could instantaneously manifest were usually antagonistic when it came to alignment with his friends and family. "Good" and "evil" were synonymous in the Winchester's thesaurus.

A pivot and raised fist was expected to meet with flesh and bone, but was paused when there was no face to be met. It was a little lower than he expected, with tangled and frizzy bleached hair framing it. The clothes were scuffed with dirt and torn, face bruised and dried blood under the nose and set near cuts on her lips. Wherever she came from, she had been captive there for some time. But none of that was enough to conceal her identity.

"I go on summer vacation and this is the welcome I get?" Calm, coolly disinterested.

Sam was struck dumb momentarily by the absurd spontaneity of, of... this. "Meg? What are..."

"'You doing here?' I shouldn't have to explain a surprise visit to my pals, right?" Reading "Bullshit" in Sam's face, her swollen lips formed a smile. "Speaking of, you should round up the rest of them; I come bearing tidings of great disappointment. News. However you want to take it. Anyway," she said circumspectly, "word about town is that Clarence has a date to the prom. No awkwardness there, right? So it's gonna be us for chums chummin' it up until dawn. I like that a lot better than being punched in the face."


	3. 002

(AN: This kind of POV isn't where I'm most comfortable in writing; I feel limited in what I can describe and how I got about describing it. The next chapter is back to normal.)

Eyes to Meg: bright smile fed by the discomfort she was causing, sitting at one side of the table alone – a seat she chose to have a better look at the two men across from her.

Eyes to Dean and Cas: looking at every object and every corner of the library but across from them.

And Sam: not exactly sure where to begin.

The petite demon said she had hold of "tasty tidbits" of gossip concerning Crowley when she confronted Sam outside of the bar., and considering how every other word out of his mouth related to the Winchesters or Castiel in some way –"Moose," "Not Moose," "my former BFF" and "those three debilitating pains in my scrotum"– that it might serve as some use.

"But why? You're not doing this out of obligation or out of the kindness of your heart." The last time he had contact with her, she had no alliances, no boss to obey or a side she would deem worthy of fighting for. Meg was independent, as independent as Sam assumed a demon could be. During the near year she had been missing he could only imagine what had changed, what she had heard and witnessed to alter her resolve. That is if anything had changed. If she wasn't serving as a messenger on someone else's behalf, Meg had considerably more to lose than gain.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, geeky giant. I'll give you all the uncensored answers to your questions – that is if you can get Felix and Oscar to quit bickering."

_We might be here until dawn_, Sam left unsaid. "They'll stop... eventually," Sam sighed helplessly.

Meg began to casually saunter to the other side of the car, hands in her over-sized coat's pockets. "Lucky for me, I got all the time in the world." She stayed silent once there, looking away from Sam and rocking on her toes. _She's doing this on purpose. She wants to say something and knowingly puts it off because I'm not going to like it._

With a contented air lightening her voice, she said, "I can't wait to see your new home."

And there it is. "Oh, no, no, no. You think we're going to let you in the bunker just because you say so?"

Sam recalls that grin before zoning back into the one person standoff before him. She got her way, and it was surprisingly easy. Once the initial shock of a familiar face reappearing in his life again ebbed away a fraction, Dean absorbed the name Crowley like a sponge, the protective side of him overriding logic and reasoning. His little demon minions were still observing them from a distance, specifically Cas, and Meg, _Meg _Meg, could have either accurate or complete bullshit information, but it was better than the zero leads they accumulated so far. With little option, Dean agreed that if Crowley knew she was going divulge in his secrets to the last people who should have them, the bunker was the most secure place for it. But he had his own condition: the three of them would be armed. She feigned hurt, of course, and resolved that if they "liked their foursomes naughty" then she was up for it, though she herself had no toys to bring.

She spared Dean and Cas some humiliation by choosing not to ride with them, the location of their home being common knowledge in the preternatural crowd long before the Winchester brothers arrived. Something in her tone, certain words she chose, crossed Sam's ears as purposely ambiguous. She was withholding already, still here in the parking lot. A portent of things to come, had to be. Yet he bit his tongue and urged his brother and the angel into the car, Dean not resisting at all being forced into the passenger seat. He sobered up enough, that was certain, but the cause of that was beginning to settle in mind like snow and made him more than distracted.

A chair scratching against the floor broke the stuffy silence, all attention focused on Castiel as he vacated the room. Sam found no explanation when he shot a questioning look to Dean who was just as puzzled.

"Maybe he had to use the little boys' room," Meg said, picking at the dried blood on her chin. "He's a gentle soul, but not very polite. I'm pretty confident that angels weren't taught table manners."

"And getting your crust all over the floor tops the list of the most courteous things you could do when you show up after missing for a year," Dean mumbled and turned his head aside, loud enough to just determine the words. His uneasiness and sulkiness only fed her pleasure, Meg's smile growing wider at each pause, every pair of eyes that swept past her to study a book's spine or that incredibly fascinating light fixture. Everything but the woman who Cas had something of an interesting past with, made all the more interesting with the addition of Dean.

Resting her elbows on the table, voice syrupy thick, Meg said, "I think we could all use a drink."

"Alright, we did everything you wanted us to do, so you think you can tell us just what the hell you're doing here?" Sam at last filled his glass -bourbon at Dean's request- and sat down, hoping his brother's volatile state wouldn't have him saying or doing something to cause any backlash from Meg. She had to be prepared; she was egging Dean on, being evasive and wanting herself, Dean and Cas in the same room and not in the open – enclosed with nowhere to run. Which is what Cas did so maybe that wasn't a good analogy...

After taking a moment to relish the burn of the alcohol down her throat, Meg shook her head firmly. "Not until your boyfriend comes back. Wouldn't be fair to leave him out."

The flinch she expected to get out of Dean didn't happen. Even Sam was sure it would happen, with Sam repeating it to him in the past he would get his shoulder punched, and the narrowly avoided psychotic break when Kevin found out. Was it finally becoming just another word, another way of referring to Cas? Or was he only bluffing?

As if taking his cue, Cas returned (_why's he walking?_) holding in one hand a metal bowl from the kitchen, a dripping blue cloth in the other, and looked comically determined about doing so. He placed both items carefully on the table in front of Meg and took his seat once again next to Dean. After having all eyes on him and no response, he was obliged to explain.

"Was I wrong in assuming she would like to scrub her face?"

"No, but..." Sam inclined his head toward his brother.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"But did you really have to use a food bowl for this? We have more suitable things you could have used. We use that to prepare meals."

"I wouldn't worry too much about you eating from that bowl, Sam." She picked up the cloth and wiped at her forehead. "Wouldn't be the first time you ingested a demon's blood."

Sam emptied his glass and refilled it as quick as humanly possible. This long night just got a hell of a lot longer.

"Alright, enough with the stalling crap." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and slouched down, getting comfortable for whatever wild ride Meg was about to send them on. "Tell us why you're here."

"Please start from the beginning," Cas added quickly, smooth and calm with patience. A tone meant to keep Dean at bay, Meg from continuing to antagonize him, or both. "Wherever you consider the beginning to be."

The water in the bowl already began to tint a copper hue as Meg dipped the cloth in to moisten it once again. She bowed her head to Cas in regards to his politeness. "The beginning... There was the full frontal assault on Dick," she began to list off, "being absconded by villainous henchmen, and Crowley. Oh yeah, plenty of that guy." Meg may have not noticed it, but Sam did – her hand pressing harder into her skin as she continued to scrub, the hardening of her face for that split second before she caught herself doing it. "As you can see, he really knows how to treat a lady."

"You're saying this went on for a year?" Sam said incredulously, not because it was Crowley doing the torturing but because she was here and functioning, willing to recall and answer their questions.

"A year's nothing. If he didn't have a new hobby to keep him occupied he'd still be breaking me in. Not that is was always the boss man doing it, but when he did it he did it right. We had some quality bonding time. Looks like I wasn't the only one who had an exciting twelve months," she perked up, scanning the three men. "Tablets, Purgatory, Dean and some monsters switched personalities, puppy love..."

After pondering for a moment, Cas appeared to recognize something. He leaned in close to Dean and whispered, "She also refers to me as an animal. Is this a quality demons and humans share: personifying animal traits in humans and vice versa?" Pride was the only thing keeping Dean in his chair and not from evaporating into the air so no trace of his embarrassment could be left behind.

"Oh Clarence, does Deany have pet names for you?" She asked Castiel dotingly.

Dean had that look to him again, the one he had with Kevin...

"He says I may act like one, but he's never unequivocally called me any pet's name. Could you mean something like 'B–'" There was a thud from under the table that cut Cas off, as well as him whipping his neck to Dean, his indignation clear as crystal.

One day, Sam hoped to heinously embarrass his girlfriend the same way.

"Enough. We're getting off topic. Now Meg, how would you describe your torture? Remember that the smallest of details count. Paint me a picture with your words." Dean took a moment to refill his own glass, a mocking smile on his lips directed at his favorite demon.

"That's a shame," she ignored Dean. "I really wanted to know. You tell me later, Castiel, when the grumpy man goes away." Sam could see that Cas still wasn't exactly sure why Dean reacted the way he had, enough for Dean to kick him, and regretted it as much as he could – which was a quizzical look and a lowered head.

"So how did you end up escaping?" Sam asked, hoping to get back on the right track. "If Crowley had it in for you so much, you think he would have kept a closer watch on you."

Meg began to wipe at a thick and angry-looking ring around her left wrist. "Foreign invaders on the king's land... something like that. His hand wasn't the one tucking me into bed at night for, well, you lose your sense on time in the dark. Left it to those more inexperienced. I saved up my energy for one of those schmucks for a rainy day and here I am, in the safe and welcoming arms of the Winchesters."

"Invaders?" Dean asked. "Did he mean the kid and his mom?"

"Not likely," Cas shook his head. "They returned to their point of origin a month ago and we know that to be true, otherwise..." He cast his eyes pitifully to Dean and tried to not let it linger. "So no, them being the intruders Crowley speaks of are not it."

For something to be able to distract the demon king from enacting his revenge on Meg and to temporarily cease his pursuit of Sam and his brother, it was easy to deduce that whatever had his undivided attention was something they sure as hell should worry about. Crowley had his goals, but he always saved room for the dessert that was the chance at flaying whoever had tried to cross him, which, among a few others, was everyone in this room. Yet here they were.

"A few of Crowley's guys were staking out the three of us – Cas especially. Did you overhear anything about that?" asked Sam.

She took a genuine moment to recollect. "Yeah. Some of them putting the hurt on me had just come back from doing the surveillance gig. Just vague stuff though: 'He's not going anywhere' or 'I don't even think he remembers.' Call me nutty, I'm willing to bet Sam's soul that Crowley found what he wanted without Cas."

"I'd appreciate it you left my soul out of this," Sam quipped. "But remember what?"

"The time I lost," Cas was all too quick to say. "For hours at a time I would disappear with no warning or reason. Could..." He struggled to find the correct words. Or any words.

"So they trapped you under a microscope to see if you'd lead them to your special place. If that's what they really wanted." Meg's raised eyebrow was directed toward Cas. "Seems like everybody wants a little piece of you."

"Crowley's boys found somebody new to crush on and I won't cry over that loss." Dean, always ready to figuratively headbutt anybody who might want to have Cas's attention, even from people he didn't know or couldn't see. Which Meg knew, of course. _"Scary people are gonna take Cas away from you!" _is all that he hears, and all he sees right now is a demon who does or did want a little piece. "Wouldn't happen to have picked up anything about who the new squeeze is?"

"Azazel," Meg said after pregnant pause. Sam felt a little idiotic for gaping, but it was the first and most natural reaction to a name they haven't not thought of in years, the owner of which had been dead for all of them. The harbinger for his purpose on earth, his blood Sam partook. Yeah, that bastard. Cas and Dean meanwhile shared the same look of bewilderment; like they had a bad taste in their mouth that no rinse could rid.

"Azazel? Yellow-eyed, been dead for almost ten years Azazel?" Dean tried to reason, making sure that there were no other demons or demon acquaintances that shared the same name. Who knows, it could have been the "Mary" or "John" of Hell. Which again wasn't the best analogy. This really not a good night for them.

Meg shrugged. "Hey, you were the one who asked. That's what I heard in passing. Not too many times but like you said, he hasn't been a topic of conversation for a couple of zany years."

"You're leaving out the context. There's no way they just said that and nothing else."

She hummed "context, context" lowly to herself, feeling around in her brain the weight of the word and pointlessly darting around answering, which could have very well been the point. Deeply pondering, she filled up her own glass, offered to do the same for Cas (he squinted), before having an epiphany. "Yeah, I remember now. Something like 'Do you think he's still alive?' and 'Why was he favored so much?' That one was right before some lovely gent began to pull out all of my nails. After that things get, you know," she scrunched her nose, "a little loud.

"There was one very special day when they talked about me, but not about me. Like... what's that word, honey?"

Knowing full well she was directing the question to him, Cas answered "Third person" and stood up again, only this time like he had a boulder strapped to his back.

A you that wasn't you. Tiny magnetized pieces began to connect in Sam's head, all forming a single line. One representing Roland and Jillian informing them that there are other universes: multiple versions of them existing at the same time; another for Castiel being stalked; the phenomena in the basement and Roland answering a question with a question - _The string that connects us to your world?_ The demons were most likely not talking about the Yellow Eyes from this world but of one of the countless others, where he may or may not be alive as well as many other demons they've killed. Cas and he shared the same conclusion.

"There's more, and Crowley found them."

"More of what?" Dean asked. Across from him, Meg finally seemed to become interested in this interrogation, straightening her posture and no longer twisting the dirtied cloth in her hands.

"What we found in the basement yesterday morning." He was up but he didn't know where to go; Cas wanted to do something, be somewhere to fix a potentially dangerous situation but what could he do right now? Frustration flushed his face which Dean caught sight of, and after a couple of gentle tugs on his coat's sleeve and a silent communication he was able to coax Cas back into his seat. "Roland and Jillian – a story for another day," he said as an aside for Meg who didn't really seem to care, "said that when they came here they may have left some sort of trail... Punching through worlds to get to this one. It's very plausible that what we have in the basement is one of them."

"I don't understand why that's such a big problem. After walking through that thing it's safe to say that it's out of order. Probably on it's way out, too."

"The one doesn't speak for the many," Sam replied. "Just because we got nowhere with this one doesn't mean that the others are in the same shape."

"OK, that may be the case, but I still don't understand why Crowley was all over Cas about it." Dean's ignorance was simple enough, but anger... no, it was self-loathing, crossed Cas's face anyway. Over something he could not control, something he did not even know he was doing.

"I... led him to them," he looked down ashamed. "I believe that all the times I left you, Dean, I went to wherever they are."

Dean's frustration was palpable. To him nothing was making sense and Sam was right there along with him going through the motions of disbelief. "But how the hell does that happen? What would make you do that?"

"None of us were ourselves." He raised his eyes to Dean almost sadly.

"Of all the crazy shit to do, why would you do that? Why just you? You don't even know if you were _alone _or not." Dean halted himself from speaking anymore and held his breath. "There are way too many god damn questions and zero answers, but let's go along with it.." He tried his hardest to sound reasonable. "Crowley finds the... things there and they're in working order. What's his plan?"

"What a fantastic segue," Meg said, finally nudging her way back into the fray. "You boys got so far ahead of me I thought you'd never let me get to the best part: the part about how only recently my biggest fan got super pissed off, giving me the opportunity to run for my freedom. Gee, baby Cas gets lost in the woods and we forget why we're here." Dean made a lazy gesture with his hand for her to say whatever she needed to say even if she wasn't looking for his permission.

"Seems like the dastardly Mr. Crowley had a setback in whatever plan he had going. Don't quote me on this, but for what I think was probably two days ago, give or take a week or month, the atmosphere where I was being held went from hostile to a total downer. They weren't nervous or anything like that. But they were definitely more timid, mind half on the job of making me bleed. I just couldn't feel the _love_ anymore. Makes me a little misty-eyed just thinking about it." Not even a pantomime sniffle out of her.

"And due to this distraction, you made your escape." Instead of confirming what Castiel had just said, the unkempt demon did a lackluster job of holding back a laugh. "...Did I say something amusing?" He asked cautiously.

"I tried to ignore it, honest. I thought I could go for the entire night and not bring it up, but... Why are _you_," she pointed to Cas, "dressing like _him_?" Then pointing to Dean.

Well, Sam had to admit, if somebody from Cas' past happened to cross ways with him now, they would be asking the same question. Though he did not forgo the suit and coat entirely, Dean persuaded him into wearing more casual clothing some days of the week. A night like tonight, the evening off with a trip to the local bar for beer and gambling (and Sam was still beyond astonished Cas was any good at it), a pair of boots, denim, and a dark gray short-sleeved shirt that was certainly Dean's. Cas's choice of attire would be much larger if not for two things: him being the fussiest man alive, and Dean tying with him for fussiest man alive. Many days have the both of them wasted at second-hand stores disagreeing about what looked best and pants that, if Cas bought, were "a damn good reason to break up with him." As summer faded with the light into fall and winter, and Castiel would be in need of heavier, thicker clothing, Sam made it a point to follow them to one of these stores to see first-hand some of the disparate choices the angel made and Dean's expostulation, hearing how desperate his empty threats were. But in the meantime, other than height, they shared the same build, making whatever clothing Dean had essentially Cas's. No matter what struggle he put up against it, Sam knew his brother well enough to see the blinking neon sign above him saying "Ignore me; I like it when Cas wears my stuff."

The only difference in Dean's attire was a forest green button-up, which Castiel was currently taking in, likely thinking than yeah, we do dress alike, for the first time even knowing full well the clothes were borrowed. Dean, he assumed, conveniently chose to ignore that and as long as no one pointed it out, he would let it continue unabated. But the fiendish little vixen did, and all he could do now was to pretend he did not hear her.

"I suppose your observation is correct, seeing as Dean and I sh–"

"Share the same taste in clothes!" Dean frantically butted in. "Yeah, oh yeah, he uh, he really looks up to me and told me a couple weeks ago he wanted to copy my style." His floundering was desperate, but even this humiliation was preferred to admitting that he was so contented in his relationship enough to share personal possessions, certainly to someone like Meg. "Since I'm such a good guy, I told him he could." Meg's face was difficult to read and being perceived as a threat to Dean. After trying to figure her out, he finally blurted, "He's not wearing my clothes!"

Cas innocently insisted, "But I am."

After receiving the knockout punch, Dean slowly placed his forehead down on the table, covering his head with his hands. A groan from the dead itself vibrated against it.

"Aw, Cas, you killed your husband. That wasn't very nice of you."

"He's making progress," Cas explained with the tiniest pout of chagrin, "but he's still in denial over the most obvious of details."

"I guess that sort of thing happens when you shack up with damaged goods."

"Isn't there a reason why you're here, Meg?" Sam warned before either of them could continue toward the inevitably fruitless ending.

"Right, right, the escape thing. I was just getting to that. Don't look at me that way, Sam. I was. As for what's got their tighty whities in a twist, I'm at as much a loss as you are. Crowley's not happy, they're not happy... Their game plan has changed, kinda like those meddling Winchesters are at it again. Are you, Cas? Are you at it again?"

He looked concerned now, and not due to Dean. Like he had recalled something. "I'm not sure."

"What's up?" Sam asked.

"Small details, what I assumed was a lingering effect of what has happened recently. Visions... Dreams would be a more applicable term, even though angels do not dream. Not the dreams I visit, either"–Dean sobbed–"but something of my own mind. Things I've not forgotten but have chosen to forget."

"When did the dreams start?" This may lead them nowhere, but it was a start and, most damning, all they had to go on.

"Less than a month. Too early to necessarily be related to what Meg is speaking of and not late enough to rule it out entirely. It's also around the time they left."

"What are they about?" Sam pressed. "No matter how small of a detail it is, it might be helpful."

Meg nodded in agreement. "That's right, so don't leave out any of the kinky bits."

"I've never had any, even with Dean."

"God damnit, Cas," Dean cried.

"The locations are normally of places I have visited in heaven with touches of my own consciousness – things I have seen here that would be incongruous there. Human weaponry, new and antiquated. Food and drink. Things I've seen while traveling with you and your brother. Rooms of this shelter but never in one piece. No living beings other than myself as a viewed them. Occasionally I would see myself as I would see others – like dolls, frozen in place. I could hear our voices even though we had no mouths, no features at all. Very mundane with no hidden context or meaning. Although..."

"And this is the part where he says there was absolutely nothing mundane about it," Meg leaned closer to Sam and whispered. He saw the truth in her words.

"In relation to the topic at hand," Cas insisted, probably irritated that they were so quick to correctly judge, "and not to something that may be an effect of something I've seen. But it would be a striking coincidence if one did not involve the other." His eyes darkened, stringing together theories in his head.

"Before the 'dream,' the name of an angel frequently came up on angel radio, one whom, up until then, led an innocuous life in Heaven – a very significant life and to my knowledge has never taken a vessel on earth, but a solitary one that had no need for others. From what I've gathered, this angel is missing. Quite a coincidence too, since the same happened to Metatron." The blank stares of Sam and Meg provoked him to elaborate with a sigh, like they should have known already. "The two of them were very good acquaintances."

Metatron, the scribe of God and the one who wrote the tablets had a friend? Did angels even have the capacity to genially care for another angel? "Cas, do you think there's a chance he or she knows what's written on the tablets?"

He shook his head. "God made that Metatron did not tell anything, mortal or immortal, about what was transcribed. The only ones with that ability are Him, Metatron, and prophets. If only it were that simple," his voiced dipped with remorse. To release the burden on Kevin, maybe. Sealing away the demons forever when they gained the knowledge of a few sentences etched into stone. That resolution was so close, so close they could touch it, yet it wasn't enough.

"I heard Sandalphon in some dreams, not like what I'd hear over radio but speaking _to _me, adding brief commentary to whatever I imagined." Sam made a mental note to read up on the name once Meg was politely escorted out of their home, and maybe after a nap. Was that Sandalphon with an "f" or a "ph..." "Or what I believe I imagined."

"Have you ever met this elusive and highly-renowned angel?" Dean asked through the table. At least he was still active in the conversation, unlike with Kevin. You could have shoved a fork in his eye and not have gotten a reaction out of him.

"Much like Metatron, no. The job ordained to Sandalphon is all time-consuming, that being the shepherding of souls to their place in heaven, and, at one time, spoke to God directly. Even you two have met it."

Meg pouted her lips and tutted at Cas. "That's no way to speak to the ambassador of angels, like it's a table. I'm disappointed in you."

Grunting like he was climbing out of bed, Dean stirred, sitting up finally to reclaim adult status. He looked skeptically at Cas. "What do you mean we've met it before?"

The dark-haired angel positively glowered at the two people who disrespectfully interrupted him. "Sandalphon has never taken a human vessel before. And despite of our labeling as 'brother' and 'sister,' until that point we are gender-less; the pronouns come only after that. So, as far as I know, and because your language has no word for 'one without gender,' Sandalphon remains 'it.' And like I have just told you, Dean, all souls upon entering Heaven are greeted by... it, though none have any recollection after."

"Lemme guess, another ridiculous stipulation?"

"If that's the way you perceive it."

"The voice you heard might have been from suggestion, maybe not. For now there's no way to prove anything. Was there anything else?" Sam continued to prod.

Cas's reaction was one Sam wasn't expecting. He knew it wasn't physically possible, but Cas seemed to shrink into his seat – his posture slumping over or sliding down in his seat, something. Blue eyes avoided him and the two others at the table. Clenching his jaw Cas must have known he was showing all the tells of hesitation, purposely withholding or delaying telling any insight he had. Blinding distress for someone lacking verbal tact.

Never missing the chance to pour lemon juice over a fresh wound, Meg chimed in. "I think he had a nightmare. It's a very sensitive subject, Sam, and I think you should leave him alone. The poor baby's never had one."

Starve a fire of oxygen and it dies out, so don't give her anymore fuel, Sam. "You might not think it's helpful or relevant to Crowley and whatever mess found him, but a lot of crazy theories start out that way. Even it it's difficult to talk about."

"It... I don't think it was a nightmare, and neither is it a traumatic thing to speak of. Just a very strange time to have it brought back to my attention. Then again, that's what I hear dreams do." He smiled crookedly at Sam.

"I saw them... Monstrosities, even for demons. Though I saw them only briefly when I traversed Hell for Sam and Dean, it was more than enough to recall in grotesque detail. To try to describe a demon's true form to humans only ends with inadequate illustrations and befuddled faces, I won't even begin to try." Dean, at his side, seemed to take this as a challenge, like it was a direct insult to him and not his kind. "They're..."

Meg snapped her fingers. "Oh! I think I know what you're talking about. Haven't seen them in awhile, myself. How are they doing?"

"It was a _dream_."

"But angel's don't _dream _and here you are getting quality one-on-one time with those little kiss-ass relics."

"Excuse me," Dean raised his voice, "I know you two are happily reminiscing about old friends, but you're leaving the humans in the dark. Care to elaborate?"

The two battled silently for rights to explain even if it was clear Meg had no intention on winning. Whatever they shared, she knew it would bother Cas more to speak of it and would enjoy that small discomfort she placed on him. A counterproductive way to show love but... Well, that was complicated. It was complicated before Dean became a variable. Was Meg just being herself, a smart mouth and a locked glass box encasing her real emotions? Was it fragmentary jealousy? A little of both, maybe. Either way, it was something Sam would never find out.

Realizing her position was now "stalemate," he huffed, finishing off the little liquor left in Dean's glass (his own was empty). He softly placed it back on the table but his hands never left it, a finger absently rubbing the rim. "Lilith was one of the first demons, but she wasn't the _first_. That distinct honor belongs seventy-two fallen angels."


End file.
